


Lost in Shadows

by Fyre



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe, References to Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was nowhere he could turn. There was no way to go on. But sometimes, the intentions of a man are not those of the Almighty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in June 2008, after seeing Les Mis for the second time, in London. Drew Sarich's Valjean blew me away, and all at once, I wanted to write about him. And yet, Javert gave me the plot and the POV. It stalled for some time, but the film happened and now, I am kittenrolling about in Les Mis love all over again.

It should not have come as a great surprise, he mused, to awaken.

Will shattered in life, and even now, a failure in death.

His head throbbed unbearably and even opening the heavy lids of his eyes felt a labour. Light lanced across his vision. He drew a slow, struggling breath, but that only served to make his lungs and ribs ache, and he forced down a sound of pain.

The man once called Inspector Javert felt himself to be broken.

His spirit had gone that way already, but now, it seemed that the Almighty had decided his body should follow.

The room he rested in was silent. The walls were plain and only one small window high above him allowed light into it. It did not feel as he imagined the pits of damnation would, yet it was no reassurance for him.

Moving with caution on the narrow bed, pain echoing even the slightest motion, he could see there was no one but him in the room of dull stone, the walls painted in pale yellow. If his ears did not deceive him, he could hear the distant sound of murmured conversations.

There was a door, ajar, but that did not provide him with information of where he might be.

His eyes fell closed again, perhaps for no time at all or perhaps for hours. When he opened them once more, a figure was seated by the bedside, a woman of the cloth. In her hand was a piece of linen, with which she was touching his brow.

He tried to speak and she offered him a mild nod of her head.

“You are recovering, Monsieur,” she said in a voice modulated to calm. It did not have the intended effect, but it seemed he was powerless to cry out, to demand to know what had come to pass. “Have you any you would have us summon for you?”

He stared blankly at her, unable to think.

She continued to talk, as if it would lure a response from him. “Your identification papers were not upon you when you were found, Monsieur. We do not know who you...”

“Found?” he demanded hoarsely, sharp and cutting, that single word causing him to gasp in pain. After all, the river had been deep after heavy rains and fast flowing. It should have finished then.

“I am afraid I do not know much, Monsieur,” the Sister replied quietly, lifting a fresh cloth, dampened, to his dry lips, letting him draw weakly on the moisture. “You were found by the banks of the Seine, we were told, but little else is known. You have been here for some days. There were fears you might not return to consciousness.”

She went on to explain, quietly and calmly, the injuries he had somehow sustained. Bones had been broken, a leg and several ribs, all bound and healing, though he had been fortunate that was all. It was believed that those injuries were caused by a fall.

There had also been extensive bruising on his face, as found on one severely beaten. When she said so, she paused, hesitated, as if expecting him to confirm or refute what could only be speculation on her part.

Javert fixed his eyes on a stain on the ceiling.

Found, like a half-drowned dog.

Perhaps they had not been told that his hat was forgotten and his coat had been gone, two things no respectable man would go without. No doubt, there would be less pity in her eyes, if she had known the real reason that he had been found in the river.

He remembered the cause well. How could he not? It was seared into his mind and he doubted he would ever be free of the memory: a life spared by one who had no right to spare it. His eyes burned and he wished he had the strength to curse the man, curse him for the life he had left for Javert to accept, curse him for living, curse him for being Jean Valjean.

He had not been afraid when he had fallen, nor when the waters had closed over him. That had been what he sought. The dark, cold oblivion. Yet now, in the small, quiet room, tended by a meek woman in a pale robe, nameless and without position for the first time, adrift from all he had known, he was afraid.

He tried to lift his hand to his face to allow himself a little pride, some small concealment for his humiliation. It felt like white fire ran the length of his spine and he only stifled a cry by force of will alone.

“Monsieur!”

Had she touched him, he knew he would have found strength to strike her back. Pity was too much, even from one who lived to grant it. He forced his face from hers, his hand held up as much as he could bear to ward her away. Was it not enough that he was shamed? Why did she feel compelled to look upon him in his weakness?

“Leave me.”

Perhaps it was fury driving the words from his aching throat, or perhaps grief. He could not be certain himself. The woman did not seem compelled to obey, but he turned a fierce glare on her, ignoring the moist heat streaking his cheeks. Wordlessly, she rose and slipped from the room, silent as a ghost.

He turned his face against the pillow, the fabric coarse. It scratched, but he could not care about something so meaningless. His body was aflame with pain, as if it was in his blood, but even that seemed inconsequential.

What purpose was there in prolonging his existence? Was it a punishment from on high against his choice? Was it not enough that his mind was torn apart? Surely, no man could be expected to live with such contradiction.

His breath wheezed in his lungs, and he trembled.

Who was he now?

What was he?


	2. Chapter 2

He was healing and recovering.

In the quiet confines of the convent hospital, he let them treat him and tend him, though why he could not be sure. His intention had been his end, but his time had been prolonged and he was still uncertain as to a new direction.

He had been working for the law since his youth. If he was to admit truly, he still was that same man, though he no longer felt worthy of the title he had earned. An Inspector would uphold the law, those commands upon which a society was based. How could he return to that knowing what he had done?

It seemed better to remain silent and nameless when the Sisters approached.

They had continued to ask him, every day, if there was none they could inform of his whereabouts, but he remained resolutely silent.

As the days went by, he knew Inspector Javert would be recorded as missing, presumed dead. All who had known him would believe death over willing absence. If his possessions had been found, a robbery gone awry would likely be named as the cause. Another lie, but not one of his own making.

By and by, the pain in his body diminished, although it was never quite gone. His ribs healed quickly, but his leg was still a cause for concern. It emerged that the lower bone had been broken in several places, and when they had unbound it to examine it, he had seen thick, black bruising on the skin, a grid-like marking.

It had become clear that while the fall from the bridge had not done him damage, the transit down the fast-flowing Seine, among the vessels that moved along it and the barriers that lined it, had been the cause.

He had not said so, allowing them to re-bind it, his teeth clenched against the pain.

He could not say how many days had gone by. He had tried to count, but sometimes, the pain had been so bad that he had fallen into fevers and spent nights tormented by nightmares. Time had blurred in the first days. All he knew was that it had been if not days, then weeks, maybe even close to a month.

He could have asked the Sisters, but that would mean acknowledging them and speaking with them, and that was the last thing he wanted. If he spoke, then there would be more questions that he was far from ready to answer.

So, he rested and healed in silence.

It was stubborn defiance that gave him strength enough to stop them feeding him like a helpless child. Though he still was weak and weary, he made it clear that he could and would do what he could to tend himself.

Despite pain and the effort it took, he made himself sit upright in the narrow bed, propped against the wall. He took the meagre dishes of food they brought him and fed himself with hands that had not yet ceased to tremble with the slightest labour. He made no complaint, and ignored the concern on their faces.

They warned him against attempting too much. His leg, they explained, was not healing. That he could have told them himself. However, they warned him that jarring it could aggravate the injury even more, the bone still in pieces beneath his skin.

So, he was reduced to sitting in the room, enclosed by four walls, watching the path of the sunlight as it tracked daily down the wall opposite him.

One of the Sisters brought a Bible for him, should he wish to seek comfort.

For several days, it sat on his bedside, untouched. Sometimes, he found himself watching it, wary, wondering if he even dared to open it.

Still, after days enough to count every stone in the wall of his Holy prison several times, his fingers closed around the worn leather cover and he tentatively opened the thin pages. If his fingers trembled, he refused to acknowledge it.

It had been his guidance for years, even before he had learned to read the words himself. It was the first thing he had read. This was where the first laws had been laid down, and it was where he looked to first.

There may have been ten, but time and again, his eyes were drawn to the eighth. The warning against theft.

It brought to mind the one who had been his downfall.

If he had ever thought Valjean guiltless as he claimed, then the words printed there said otherwise. Theft was theft, irregardless of the cause. It was significant enough to be in the Book. It was a crime. Valjean was a criminal.

Javert’s fingertips touched the words.

A criminal who had spared him when any lesser man would have killed him, or at least left him to the ruthless mercy of mercenary students.

The pages closed sharply and he stared at the worn leather cover.

Again, trial by his mind alone.

An eye for an eye.

A crime had to be punished.

That was the law in the ancient days, and it still held true.

He placed the Book aside and clasped his hands together in his lap.

Could the good deeds a man did atone for past sins? Valjean had a multitude in his past, theft only one of them. And yet, he had clearly borne the boy from the barricades. It had not been a selfish act. Neither was his liberation of Javert.

Perhaps Javert’s mind was playing cruel tricks upon him as he thought back on that which troubled him. Perhaps it was his own guilt. Perhaps it was nightmarish reality.

Whatever it was, when the door opened and he raised his head to find that man looking in at him, it seemed so real, compassion and pity in his dark eyes. Javert’s anger surged and without thought, he rose from the bed in rage.

Pain tore through him and he fell into blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

His mind had not been playing him for a fool.

Pain had rendered him helpless and he could remember feeling as if he was burning alive and all the while, he was sure he saw that face. His leg had proven weak and when he rose in anger, it had done far more harm than good.

When the fever faded and he could see clearly once more, he was not alone in his small cell any longer.

Sitting on a low stool by the bed was the man. Prisoner 24601. Jean Valjean. His head was bowed, grey hair lit by a candle on the chest beside the bed. He was reading. He had taken up the Holy book, and he was reading it.

Javert sought the strength to curse him, curse his presence, curse his name, but his lips were dry and the only sound he could make was a harsh croak. He felt the sting of his lower lip cracking. His blood was hot, with the taste of metal.

Valjean lifted his head at the sound, wary, then closed the book he was holding. The relief on his face was like a knife in Javert’s throat, unwanted and vicious.

Worse still, he moistened a cloth and brought it to Javert’s lips.

Ignoring the pain he knew would follow, Javert jerked his head away. Darkness spotted behind his eyes, but he glared at the wall in front of him, forcing himself to remain conscious and aware. He would not succumb.

He heard Valjean move. The stool scraped on the stone floor and the flickering shadow stretched over him, crawling up the walls. A hand was suddenly on his arm, gripping him, confirming to him that this was not simply a nightmare. He refused to turn, to acknowledge him, to accept his presence.

“You must drink.”

Javert’s teeth ground together until his jaw felt it would split, but he made no sound. His head was aching and his leg throbbed unbearably, but as long as the man was there, he would not let it be known that he was in pain.

“Javert.”

Every syllable was a burst of agonised fury. “Get out of here.”

The hand remained on his arm for a moment, then it was withdrawn. Javert watched the shadow on the wall waver, then diminish, until he was left alone once more. Only then, did he allow the racking sound of pain to escape him, his head swimming.

It was only a short time before one of the Sisters entered the room.

It was clear she had been sent by the one he had dismissed, but at least it was not him again.

She was a younger woman than usual, not yet adept at holding her tongue. He let her moisten his lips, and speak of the concern there had been. He had fallen and his leg had been damaged again, she informed him, and the gentleman attending the patient several rooms away had aided them when he had fallen from his bed.

There had been fears of an infection when a fever had taken hold, but it seemed to be healing, though she warned him that the fever could return if he did not rest as he had been asked.

Even Monsieur from the other patient’s room had been concerned for his well-being and insisted on watching over him, she said. He seemed a kind old gentleman, to sit and watch over a stranger for so many hours.

He could not help but laugh bitterly, grimacing in pain as he did so.

The young sister seemed confused, but he could not care. His anger was fading into weariness and he closed his eyes, willing the pain behind his eyes to fade. It did little to aid, but by and by, he slept again.

When he woke, the morning had broken, a pale light filtering through the small window. He was both surprised and relieved to find the stool vacant of either his unwanted visitor or the talkative little Sister.

All that remained was the Book on the edge of the small, rickety table, where the man has left it.

There was something emerging from between the pages that caught his eye.

With effort, Javert managed to reach over and lift the book across the narrow space between table and bed. Such a small act should not make him pant for breath, but his body had chosen to rebel again.

When his breathing eased, he carefully opened the book, a narrow strip of cloth marking a chapter, tucked into the margin.

By the pale morning light, he read the verse.

His hand trembled when he closed the Holy Book, knowing who had placed that marker and why they had done so. A lesson, even now, and an explanation to him. The man knew he would not have listened, so he had done what he could.

Javert knew he should be angrier at his presumption and his nerve, but he was so drained. Even the thought of anger wearied him. Perhaps, if they had been face to face, it would have been easier to be furious. Now, though, he could not.

Laying down the book, he stared blindly across the room at the closed door.

It did beg the question of what had led Valjean to him. The Sister believed he had fallen from the bed before the man arrived, but the man had come into the room. Had he known Javert was there? Or had it been a simple error, entering the wrong room?

No. It could not be such a coincidence, not after so many years.

Turning carefully onto his back, Javert surveyed the ceiling above him. He would not ask the Sisters, who clearly thought well of the thief. He could not ask the other patients, not as long as he could not move.

That only left one possibility.

If Valjean…

No. When Valjean returned, as he doubtless would, he would find himself with questions to answer.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days past before his solitude was disturbed again.

Javert’s eyes were following the movement of a sluggish spider across the ceiling when the door opened. He did not need to look, the hesitation of his expected intruder telling him precisely who was there.

Footsteps approached. When Javert did not speak, the low stool scraped on the stone floor, set closer to the bed. The silence deepened, and Javert’s eyebrows drew together, though his gaze remained fixed on the spider.

“Your health improves?” Valjean was the one to finally break the silence.

Javert condescended to look at the man, as old, if not older than him. How foolish they must look, two ageing men in a room that was little more than a clean cell, enemies for as long as he dared to remember.

Valjean offered that small, infuriatingly tranquil smile. “You have better colour,” he offered, as if that were a comfort.

“You did not tell them who I was,” Javert said coolly. It was only one of many matters that made no sense to him.

“Them?”

He gave the man a cold look. “The Sisters,” he said. “Had my name been known, there are those who would wish to know my whereabouts.”

Valjean looked down at his hands that were lined, almost frail with age. His skin seemed almost translucent, and he looked a shadow of the superhuman man who had once broken his chains, the man who could lift a runaway cart to save another. He had offered himself, Javert remembered, surrendered his security. Giving in.

“Sometimes, it is better when people are unaware of who you are,” he finally said. He raised pale, tired eyes. “This seemed one of those occasions.”

Javert stared at him. “It was not your place,” he snapped.

“You had not told them,” Valjean said with a lift of his shoulders. “It was not my place to tell your tale.”

“My tale?” Javert would have snorted bitterly, had not pain lanced his side. His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of my tale?”

Valjean gazed at him, the steady, honest gaze of a born sinner. “I know you were found, nameless and wounded on the banks of the Seine, some distance from the place where we last met, and were brought here,” he said.

Suspicion crept over Javert, a suffocating uncomfortable suspicion. “Some distance,” he echoed, his voice tight with effort of control. “And I suppose the identity of my Samaritan is unknown as well.”

“I did not see him,” Valjean murmured.

“Him,” Javert said quietly. “A man who promised an hour more, I wager.”

Valjean looked back at him steadily, calmly. “I did not see him,” he repeated quietly. “My daughter’s betrothed was my burden that day.”

“Why you were upon the barricade.” That at least explained matters.

Valjean nodded. “There were things I had to do. And you found me once more, as I took him home.”

Javert turned his attention back to the spider creeping across the ceiling. “Why?”

“He was wounded,” Valjean replied just as quietly. He moved slightly, the stool’s ancient wood creaking beneath him. “I did not see him fall, but he needed care when I reached him. Who would have aided him, if I had not?”

“Do all such wretched charity cases deserve such care?” Javert sneered, though his throat felt seared, painful, though not through any wound.

“Some,” Valjean said quietly. “Why should a man be left for dead simply for choosing a path that did not end as he intended?”

Javert stared viciously at the ceiling. If his gaze could have killed, the spider would have dropped from its perch.

Then Valjean touched his shoulder.

It was so unexpected, so uncalled for that Javert could not think to shrug him off or protest.

“God spared you for a purpose,” the man said, conviction in every word. “Whatever happened after we parted the ways, whoever it was that cast you into the river, you were spared. Do you not want to know why?”

Javert stared at him. He knew why: damnation, cruelty, rejection.

“Get out,” he said hoarsely. “You are not welcome here.”

“Javert,” Valjean said with that foolish, unshaking gentleness. “You need not be alone here.”

“Get out!” Javert pushed Valjean’s hand away with such violence that his ribs wrenched and he cried out.

He was caught by the other man, who laid him back against the pillow.

Javert caught his collar, dragging his face close, every word agony in his chest. “I do not want your pity!” he hissed. “Go to hell and stay there.”

Valjean stared back at him, then gently loosened Javert’s hand from his collar and pressed it to Javert’s chest. “Rest and regain your strength,” he murmured. “I will not trouble you again, unless you wish me to.”

“Get out, damn you,” Javert whispered, breath aching in his lungs.

Valjean lowered his head in a curt nod, and rose. His movements were stiff and careful, weighted with old age, no longer the man he had once been, even days - or was it weeks? - before on the barricades. He moved the bible onto the bedside beside Javert’s hip. “Should you need comfort,” he said quietly.

Javert turned his face away angrily. His hands were balled into fists on his chest, clenched so hard that his nails bit into his palms. He did not doubt they would be marked with bloodied crescents. He wished to rise, strike the man down, scream out against him, against his inability to act as he was born to. But all he could do was meet the damned man’s mockery of kindness with silence.

There were footsteps and the door creaked as it opened, then closed quietly.

In the silent hospital cell, Javert lay motionless for some time, his eyes open and staring blindly at the wall in front of him. Only when the daylight began to fade did one hand move and close, once more, on the leather-bound Bible by his side.


End file.
